


Something Warm

by arlathahn



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Truth be told, the silver band had been the last thing on her mind. There was always a more pressing issue occupying her thoughts, distracting from Ed’s last remnant. Another load of laundry to wash or another meal to cook. And if it wasn’t the usual tasks, it was some other extreme matter: another funeral, another fight, another home. It wasn’t until she stood with a cold, lifeless gun in her palms that it all came rushing back.</p>
<p>The cool metal against her skin was not wholly unfamiliar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Warm

_It was a small wedding._

_There were no adoring masses, no church bells ringing. A simple ceremony for a simple occasion, and it suited her just fine. The lack of decorations was evident on the floor and walls, but it was of little consequence. The moment she was unveiled, eyes bright and twinkling, their eyes did not linger on the scenery, or the church, or even the wooden floorboards creaking underneath her feet._

_All eyes were on her._

_An angelic smile brightened the room as pale feet slid across the satin petals with an unmatched grace, her simple beauty radiating for all to see. Her mother's dress clung to her in a beautiful, delicate fashion; and though there was a distinct lack of elegant pearls adorning her neck and fine silk encasing her body she shone nonetheless._

_It was a beautiful day._

“ _Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”_

_The day that started the rest of her life._

“ _I do.”_

* * *

 

She wakes up shaking.

A brisk wind howls just beyond the litter of half-asleep bodies collapsed haphazardly across the floor, the air as bitter and dark as the memory haunting her dreams. The frail blanket does nothing to ward off the perpetual chill but she nestles further inside regardless, grateful for any excuse to burrow and hide. Even half convinces herself the frigid, midnight air is the real reason for the shiver working its way down her spine.

The sorry excuse sounds lame to her own ears.

Carol doesn't bother closing her eyes after that, doesn't bother pretending to succumb to another restless night. So she listens instead, surrenders herself to the soft whispers of deep sleep and contented sighs, and before long she's hoping and praying and mourning all on her own.

All on her own.

She tries not to be bitter, even on the best of days. And most days, she gets by fine. But the pain is more bearable when others are around – awake – to carry it. They keep each other alive, but they also keep each other going. It's when her eyes close in the twilight hours that she's reminded of the demons haunting her every step, torturing her waking life.

It's a tragedy in and of itself.

A resentful sigh rushes out of her, but she can't even hear herself over the roaring wind. Never a moment's peace.

Scraping hardwood sends her heightened perceptions in overdrive, the sound as deafening as nails on a chalkboard and just as unwelcome. Her mind immediately fills in the blanks, noting the noise is too quick, too precise to be accidental. Change of guard, then. A few agonizing minutes pass before she hears a chorus of strained floorboards emanating from the hallway beside her, pausing at the entryway no more than five feet away. Her neck cranes as she struggles to see anything in the surrounding midnight air, but she's met with a vast expanse of nothing. Just dark silence. All is eerily quiet before a trudge of retreating footsteps echoes down the adjacent living room.

Her head hits the ground a bit harder than necessary as she repositions on her back, eyeing the darkness like it owes her something. Sleep, peace, warmth – in no particular order. More than anything she wishes to join the restless soul on watch, but then...in a rare bout of selfishness, she knows that isn't true. Not entirely, anyway.

She wishes to join _him_.

But the thought only bring more fear, more sadness. Even the face of unending loneliness she wishes for more than she ought. Longs for a warmth she knows she cannot share.

Without thought her fingers twist and turn beneath the feeble blanket, warring hands the only tell of her unfair thought, her deepest desire. But it's when her thumb traces a thin line over the silver band on her left finger that her body halts all movement. Jumbled hands cease their nervous twitching. Twisted thoughts cease their endless musing.

For a moment, she's thankful for the gust of wind whistling just beyond reach. Its constant refrain serves to distract attention from secretive fingertips seeking and yearning for a cold, dead symbol.

Her thumb brushes the inner workings of her palm in fearful trepidation, a wary tension making her mouth run dry. Quivering hands fumble as she nears her mark, tentative and timid but firm and resolute. She's so focused and scared and shaking that she jumps when a sharp crack erupts through the air, too loud and much too close.

Carol forces her eyes to focus. It's dark. It's much, much too dark, but she strains anyway, eyes peeled and alert for any movement, any form.

Any blow that could appear out of nowhere.

Attentive eyes fail in the endless sea of darkness, so she refocuses her defense. Keeps her breathing steady, keeps her body rigid and unmoving.

She's surprised then, to hear a light curse fill the void. The sound is nearly inaudible over the creaking wind, but she takes in every minute detail. After all, it may be the difference between a drunken fumble of limbs and a dislocated shoulder.

Worn elbows rest precariously on the hard floor as she strains to follow the string of curses lingering in the black air. Disappointed silence is all she sees before a match ignites a few feet in front of her, the miniscule display of light a flash of heaven after being alone in darkness for so long.

The dismal flame burns out, and when a new flutter of curses fills the air she notes the familiar gruff tone with clarity. The surly voice and promising warmth draws her in, and before she can question the train of thought she's standing before the antique fireplace, watching timid flames flicker to life.

And since she's tired and cold and lonely she allows herself one more selfish moment. To relish pure, unadulterated _longing_ she hasn't felt for...

Well. For quite a long time.

Daryl tends to the flames with seasoned practice, and Carol can't help but admire his calm determination. It's nothing short of perfection, the way his hands shuffle about with surprising softness, a gentle touch she would not have expected from calloused, cold palms. Her gaze wanders from hands to shoulders to back, noting how his entire body responds to the task at hand, as though his mission to provide some measure of comfort, of warmth, is of utmost importance. The urgent strain in his muscles is downright tangible, and she finds herself aching for him. His gentle nature, his unmatched capabilities were hidden away in dark shadows of the night, unnoticed by those he touched.

And more than anything, she wishes to tell him that isn't true.

All the once the fire flickers to life in a brilliant explosion of golden embers, casting a warm glow upon everything within reach. Daryl grunts in soft satisfaction but continues poking the wood regardless, seemingly drawn to the flames himself.

Carol takes a moment to revel in the unexpected heat, grateful for any excuse to be rid of morose, unsatisfied thoughts. Her gaze trails the angelic wings lining Daryl's trademark vest, mapping every stitch with careful, introspective eyes. And before she can fully register what's happened she's taken another bold step forward, arm outstretched to touch his shoulder in the most tender of caresses.

Daryl stills under her touch, tensing as though the simple contact is as scalding as the kindling he tends to. Her hand retracts on instinct when he whips around to face her, and even through overcast shadow Carol can make out the hardened look in his eyes. The expression has years of torment written all over it: the expectant pain mixed with just a glimmer of hope that maybe this time will be different. Maybe that pounding fist will never come. Maybe...

It's fleeting, but it's enough.

Carol doesn't miss the way his entire frame sags not a second later, realization and relief palpable on his features. The slight release in his shoulders, the faint shift in his blue orbs is so heartbreakingly familiar, and something deep within her breaks a little at the sight.

She knows that look; she's worn that mask.

A flicker of surprise dances across his features next, as he seems to take into account the odd timing of her presence. His gaze flutters up and down her form before returning to the task at hand. The newborn flames rise and fall with wary resolve, battling suffocation and strength.

“What're you doing up?”

Another match ignites, resurrecting the more fearful flames.

“Can't sleep.”

It's true enough.

Daryl makes a soft grunt in response, and she watches those etched wings rise and fall once, then twice as he nods, ignoring her presence all the while. The stale scent of sulfur and blatant disregard of her company does nothing to ward her off; rather, she finds herself relishing the odd mixture. It's comforting somehow, if slightly unusual.

A prolonged silence drags out between them, every unspoken confession creating an awkward, unsure tension. The nervous edge in the air has her hands resuming their impatient fidgeting, fingers circling each other in a ritualistic race. As seconds become minutes the once simple caresses become frantic and hurried as worry and doubt threaten to undo years of protected, isolated walls.

But all it takes is one movement, one stroke, to foil any semblance of strength she has left.

Her eyes flutter shut as a familiar trembling takes over, leaving tiny beads of perspiration in their wake. From head to toe she feels herself falling, _succumbing._ Her entire body racks with weakness and fear and Carol hates herself for it, cursing that beautiful day for fooling her, for feeding her naïve vulnerability.She tries – oh how she tries – to regain control, to force the conflicting digit to comply.

To move ever closer to the brand she wears.

“Me neither.”

The rough, guttural tone of Daryl Dixon shatters all illusion of concentration, and an involuntary exhale rushes out of her. The breathy echo reverberates through the cold, dark house in an awkward manner as her lungs strive to live again. The moment she can properly breathe she berates the wind, the house – everything – for its unfair betrayal. She's several imaginary words in when Daryl looks back at her with a question in his eyes.

A question she cannot answer.

But her anger is as short-lived as the inquiry staring back at her. The instant her mouth opens to make some excuse his expression changes and the query vanishes without a trace. Her lips clamp shut and after a few uncomfortable seconds she's left gazing at faded wings once more. It's only after she catches herself dumbstruck and halted that she realizes what he's confessed to her.

He can't sleep either.

Surprise locks her in place, an unfamiliar bewilderment overwhelming her mind. She's always known Daryl has demons; she's been around him long enough to put the pieces together. But that knowledge doesn't stop the plain, two-word admission from ringing in her ears on repeat. It isn't until the third loop that it registers.

They don't just share demons.

They share _pain._

Carol doesn't know what nightmares plague Daryl Dixon in the darkest hours of the night. Doesn't know what scars leave him craving warmth and comfort the same as she.

But she finds herself longing to.

She bites her lip in a bout of nervousness before taking one uncertain step forward, entering his space. No sooner have her feet drawn closer than Daryl pushes himself off the floor in one fluid movement, turning to face her encroaching form.

A peculiar standstill occurs as both cease their movements, sharp eyes entering a dangerous poker game. Orange embers envelope Daryl in their ethereal light, and if he wasn't captivating before, he sure is now. The few times they'd been in close proximity was only due to some dire circumstance, when she couldn't fully appreciate the gesture. Here, at long last, she can treasure the broad expanse of his shoulders as he towers over her – not with malice, but with grace. Now she can appreciate the natural warmth his body radiates, teasing her just beyond reach.

But it's his eyes that force her to break away first. With his back to the flames it's near impossible to make out his expression, and the raw scrutiny of his gaze burns straight through her.

So much for a good poker face.

Her eyes drop in shame, a bittersweet smile replacing all previous thought. As another wave of tired loneliness threatens to undo years of silent disappointment, her gaze seeks out the silver metal responsible for the newfound resurgence of torment and doubt.

The unpolished ring is muted and dark, concealed by Daryl's shadow. It's the slight tuft at its apex that finally unveils the jewel's presence, the occasional flame reflecting in its precious depths.

But frightened eyes cannot hold the gem's twinkling scrutiny, either. She's trapped on all sides, claustrophobic of a painful past and an indefinite future.

Averting eyes sweep left and right before landing back on the source of secret yearning, praying for an escape from this silent, black prison. She wishes to tell him. _Confess_. Wishes for a great many things, in fact. But the moment her gaze lands on those unreadable blue orbs every hidden desire, every hopeful admission dies on her lips; the simple truth as barren and desolate as the numb silver on her finger.

He has the upper hand, this much is obvious. And though it takes every ounce of patience she can muster, she waits. The cards have been dealt, and she's folded.

It's his turn.

Carol's not sure what she expected, really. Perhaps for him to saunter off, preferring the peaceful quiet to an evening of warm comfort. It's his way, and she respects that. Even envies it a little. So when Daryl mimics her hesitant step, entering _her_ space, she's beyond surprised.

She's floored.

She tries to keep herself calm. But his reciprocation is so unexpected, so dizzying, she can't help but trace eyes and cheeks and lips, memorizing every detail.

Because much later, when she's alone in the dark again, she wants to treasure this moment.

Naked floorboards creak under their combined weight and a brisk wind begs for attention, but intense eyes never relinquish their hold. There's no more than a foot between them, and all her apprehension vanishes as his warmth envelopes her with its gentle persistence. A small voice in the back of her mind wonders if this was his desired effect. Almost as if...

...he's trying to help her forget.

There's no proof, and the foreign thought doesn't last longer than a few seconds. For in the next moment that compelling yearning is back in full force and overwhelming every pore. Keen eyes continue their shy explorations, her erratic gaze mirroring the nervous, staccato drum of her heart. The faint aroma of smoke and leather fills her nose next, spurring an inner turmoil as she tries and fails to reign herself in.

He's intoxicating.

A piercing snap crackles through the air, long forgotten flames shattering the tense stalemate. Daryl casts his gaze downward in response, feet playing with the tenuous floorboards separating the sparse distance between them. A small smile traces her lips as she watches him, unashamed, those alluring eyes ever shrouded in mystery.

What she wouldn't give to know what he's thinking.

The man himself seems to read her mind, glancing back at her with a firm expression, all nervous embarrassment erased from sight. She still can't read him, not in this darkness, but the hard lines around his eyes suggest he's made up his mind.

Her intuition proves correct when Daryl retracts a step, severing the heated connection once and for all.

She tries to ignore the fact that she's left cold and wanting and desperate. Tries to disregard the prickling sensation setting fire to the back of her eyelids. A string of sorry excuses flood her thoughts, begging for a pathetic alibi to rid herself of this absolute horror and humiliation. But her mind stops short when she realizes those inscrutable eyes have yet to cease their stealthy inspection. Their quiet intensity is no less fierce than it was earlier, heat as electrifying as the embers encircling his body.

Carol has become something of a body language expert since meeting Daryl Dixon. The man prefers to speak with actions rather than words, and she finds herself appreciating the ease in which he can say so much with so little. So when she finds herself in a dimly lit hallway with that same man, a man she aches for, a man she _needs_ , she notices every slight movement.

Such as when he gives a curt nod, inviting her to follow him.

Daryl disappears down the adjoining living room without a word, his swift retreat as quiet and subtle as the rare invitation. Carol is locked in place for all of three seconds before she follows, trailing his footsteps as though he might disappear into thin air.

She can't lose him.

The family room is stripped bare, save for a clutter of furniture in one corner and a piano in the other. Dusty photographs line the west wall, frames tilted at sharp angles, jarring with the friendly faces hiding underneath. They've been on the road for months now, but the uncomfortable nostalgia of raiding a neighborhood home always leaves her feeling misplaced somehow. Each deserted room a tomb full of disjointed clues and woeful heartbreak; every empty house a vacant story she will never know.

Daryl sits on a wooden bench along the furthest wall, studying the view outside through a small window. The glass pane had long since been boarded up, but ever the stubborn one, he insists on staring through the cracks anyway.

Always watching like a hawk.

A smile brightens her face, propelling her forward until she's seated beside him, legs tucked underneath her. She glances outside and is surprised to find few walkers out in the yard. Just a few stragglers wandering aimlessly, unaware of the dinner hidden within the unassuming house. The frigid wind continues its crying, a constant reminder of the impending cold. Already she can feel its effects creeping back into her bones, but she pays it no mind.

She's not alone.

Daryl looks at her then, takes in her crossed arms and curled posture.

“Cold?”

“I'm fine.”

She grins for good measure, allowing the silence to stretch out between them. Waiting.

“What keeps you up?”

Carol can feel her eyebrows rise, surprised again at his query. Daryl Dixon doesn't do small talk. Daryl Dixon rarely asks questions at all. And why he's taken a sudden interest in her sleeping habits, she's not sure.

Wait, habits?

“Keeps?”

He looks away from her then, glancing back out the window. Several seconds pass before she hears his voice, soft and quiet.

“You haven't been sleeping for the past week.”

When his eyes flicker back to hers, a blazing fire stares back at her. It's all consuming, and she forces herself to break away first.

Before everything comes spilling out.

He's right, of course. He's always right. The recurring nightmares are as disorienting as they are disconcerting. At first she wasn't sure where the images stemmed from. The flashes of times long passed, the painful memories filled with a regretful, prophetic message. But as the days went by, the images became clearer and clearer until there was only one image left.

The ring.

Carol isn't a fool. She's long since moved on from the death of her husband. Is probably the only grateful widow in the world, as terrible as the thought may be. But all in all, she isn't grateful for death; she's grateful for life. _Her_ life. For the first time since that one year anniversary, she is free.

Well, almost.

Truth be told, the silver band had been the last thing on her mind. There was always a more pressing issue occupying her thoughts, distracting from Ed's last remnant. Another load of laundry to wash or another meal to cook. And if it wasn't the usual tasks, it was some other extreme matter: another funeral, another fight, another home. It wasn't until she stood with a cold, lifeless gun in her palms that it all came rushing back.

The cool metal against her skin was not wholly unfamiliar.

The sound of another log popping in the background brings her back to the glowing eyes awaiting her response, the reflecting flames unsettling and inviting all at once.

How appropriate.

“Nothing goes unnoticed by you, does it?”

Her tone is light, stalling the wayward confession lingering unspoken in the air. The barest traces of a smile light up Daryl's face, and he glances outside in an effort to feign disinterest.

“Not that hard to find somethin' if you're looking for it.”

Her head cocks sideways at his response, inquisitive.

“And what are you looking for, Daryl Dixon?”

His head darts back her way in record time, clearly caught off guard at her choice of words. A half-formed smile plays at her lips, but the sincerity of her words has her brows raised a fraction of an inch, baiting for a response.

Another lapse of silence occurs as Daryl scrutinizes her face, studying her with quiet determination. She knows he's reading her, looking for some kind of clue. But sooner or later he'll realize there isn't one to find in her face.

He alone holds the answer to her query.

“Nothin'.” He shrugs.

Her eyes narrow, her head straightens up, but that small smile never leaves her lips.

“I think you are.”

This time it's her turn to glance outside, casting a cursory glance over the undead bodies skulking around the lawn. She hears Daryl mirror her pose, the heat of their shared breath fogging up the remaining glass panes. A few seconds pass before Daryl releases a puff of air, and even in the dark living room the simple note has sarcasm written all over it.

“Got me all figured out, huh?”

“Sure do.”

A few minutes pass, the contented silence calming her jumpy nerves. She watches the thin circle of condensation appear and disappear with each parting breath, the cool glass a peculiar, homely comfort. She's missed this: the simple camaraderie of Daryl Dixon, stubborn anti-hero with a heart of gold. In the wake of depressed loneliness she'd nearly forgotten how comforting the begrudging redneck could be, always providing some measure of warmth. Most of the time, the effect was internal.

“What is it you think I'm lookin' for?”

Carol is not sure which she's more surprised at: Daryl breaking the silence or the question he broke it with. She looks back at him with earnest surprise, warm comfort and glass panes all but forgotten. Daryl's face is a mask of hard lines and cold passivity, but all she sees is deflection. Maybe even a challenge hidden in those murky depths.

She won't disappoint.

“A home.” A thoughtful pause, then. “But you're still running. Running from something that's been following you for quite some time now, same as me.”

The minute comparison speaks volumes of their current placement, sharing demons in late hours of the night.

Together and alone.

“Your past.”

Something flickers in his eyes then. Surprise, mixed with just a glimmer of uncertainty. No sooner has the glance appeared than it vanishes again, expertly hidden beneath an indifferent snort.

“Aren't we all?”

Carol returns his sarcastic grunt with one of her own, mimicking his gesture but not in an unkind fashion. The playful challenge reminds her of a conversation between strangers at a shabby southern bar. She allows the scenario to play out in her mind, imagines herself taking a long sip of his whiskey before going in for the punch.

“True.” She pauses for effect. “But you're different.”

Daryl's face never falters its resilient stance, but she's beginning to see a few cracks in the armor. If she had to guess, he's torn between the possibility of a correct answer or the certainty of a wrong one: that she may never figure him out.

“You don't know who to be without it.”

She doesn't miss the way his eyes narrow a fraction of a degree, pupils dancing back and forth between her own black specks, asking and wondering an unspoken question. The silence drags on as they stare at each other, willing the other to up the ante or fold now, while there's still time.

“And you do?”

Carol laughs then, a real, genuine laugh. She could get used to teasing him. If this were another time, another place, she would take another swig of his alcohol, watching him all the while.

Letting their eyes speak a language of their own. A different game.

“Not quite.” Her gaze drops to her hands, swirling the imaginary amber fluid in a smooth, rhythmic motion. The graceful waves hold a promise of morose tranquility, of peace from the nightmares awaiting her restful head. A sudden bout of sadness washes over her as she takes it all in, the admission spilling from her lips at long last.

“But I want to live, Daryl.” She's vaguely aware of the way her voice cracks, the enormity of this moment too much to bear, even in this vacant space. “I don't want to be afraid anymore.”

The fictitious liquor turns and turns and _turns_ , fueling her fire. Every so often she catches a glimpse of herself in its depths, reflecting pieces of her face for the world to see. The images twirl in spiteful mockery until her stomach churns, loathing the fearful faces staring back at her. Loathing everything they stand for. Delicate hands halt the rotation with angry force, hating everything about this moment of weakness.

But most of all, hating herself for stooping so low. For being unable to complete this one simple task.

To let _go_.

Raging tears stream down her face as a new wave of silence settles in, but she can't even bring herself to leave this awkward mess of an evening. Her eyes flutter shut when she hears a faint creak resonate from Daryl's seat on the bench, feels the weight shift on the wooden surface.

She doesn't blame him for leaving.

A few torturous moments pass before a familiar warmth spreads across her fingers, the sensation too real, too electric for her clouded imagination to conjure up. Confused eyes blink in the sight before her again and again, waiting for the image to disappear, to vanish like everything else in this empty house.

But the rough hand stays firm atop her own, in spite of the awkward, five second delay in which her mind shuts down. The only observation her uncooperative brain registers is the reawakened heat surging through chilled fingertips, that calloused palm jump starting a long forgotten circulatory pattern.

The fire in her veins isn't meant to last, however. In the next moment that heated, chapped hand retracts, leaving her relieved and cold and forlorn all at once. But her mind doesn't dwell on the gesture of comfort, or even the strange man seated much closer than he was a few minutes ago. For the moment that hand disappears from view, another equally familiar image takes its place. One not nearly as soothing and warm. An image buried in the illusion of another time, another life – if only for a little while. Whatever it took to make the pain disappear. But now she sees. The amber whiskey was a mere game, a trick to remove that ring from her finger. Even in the midst of persistent shadow all it takes is one glance to recognize the silver jewel twirling absently on her forefinger. To see a face mirrored in its cold, dark depths, encasing fractured pieces of herself in withering flames.

All at once the illusion shatters.

Carol bites her lip, hard, refusing to look at those fiery blue orbs. Refusing to acknowledge the man in front of her, the presence she wanted, the one who so clearly _sees_ everything about her. She's laid out bare in front of him, torn at the seams, exposed in a way she's never been before.

She rips the brand off, an angry thrash of fingers and hands as more violent tears threaten to break her once and for all.

“Hey.”

Carol doesn't know what she plans to do. Realizes a bit after the fact she doesn't have a plan at all. She's pretty sure there wasn't a rulebook for this particular moment before the end of the world, let alone during the apocalypse. So she keeps bustling about, ignoring the gentle presence in front of her for all she's worth.

“ _Hey_.”

A hand reaches out to cup her chin, all but forcing her to focus. Stubborn eyes stare a hole through Daryl's leather vest before traveling upward with an excruciating slowness, that fervent anger depleting as her eyes near their mark. By the time their eyes meet, she knows she's lost.

One final tear streaks down her face as the final wall shatters.

Daryl catches the single drop, brushing her face with impossible gentleness. One timid, smudged forefinger traces her cheek, washing away every ounce of hatred and pain with a single stroke. The unexpected contact, the sincerity of his gaze has her mouth opening to speak against her own volition.

“I don't know how to be alone.”

And there it is. The truth that keeps her up at night, that haunts her dreams.

Carol wishes to break away, to sever the connection to that imploring gaze that's much too deep and much, much too close. She doesn't want to be alone, but she doesn't want this silent scrutiny to carry on, either; an internal war commencing as body and mind battle fight or flight.

But something in his gaze keeps her in place, keeps her eyes trained on his. It's a look she's never seen before, an expression she never imagined being privy to. An expression so open, so earnest, her chest hurts and her eyes sting with the potential promise in those ocean depths. It's strangely unbearable, the way his eyes cling to her face, memorizing every detail. Praising the image he sees there, as though she's some flawless creature he's always dreamt of catching.

It burns straight through her.

“I know.”

That tender hand falls away as the simple confession takes its place, weary eyes tracing the damp trail along her cheek with sad resignation. For the second time that evening she's left dumbstruck and breathless, unaccustomed to the wayward confessions of Daryl Dixon. The man who offers so much with so little, and gives up so much of himself in between. The man who understands her on a cellular level, even when she fails to understand herself.

And just like that, she realizes.

They're both learning to live outside someone else's shadow.

Carol looks at him, then. Really _looks._ Watches those blue orbs, gentle and tender in a way that feels inexplicably intimate, implore her with an unspoken question.

_You okay?_

And for the first time in a long time, she can honestly reply.

_Yes._

Nothing is perfect. She's no closer to answers than she was five minutes ago. There's no promise the nightmares will end and strength will return. There's no hope, no future left to cling to.

But there's no past, either.

The reminders are there. On the walls in picture frames, on the scars etched in skin. But they are mere memories now. The worst is over. The demons are dead. The pain is gone.

Carol sniffs and straightens herself, holding her head high. It's not much, just a few degrees higher than normal, but even so the small movement feels brazen and shameless. Her lips quirk upward and her eyes twinkle with a mirth she hasn't felt in _years_ , not since the day...

Her eyes whip to the neglected ring resting perilously on her index finger, stuck in limbo just above her knuckle. Her body does not tremble this time as she removes it, fingers fueled by graceful purpose. And as she holds the jewel, reflecting on its beauty one last time, Carol cannot bring herself to feel contempt or scorn for the forsaken band. The sorrow is over, the shadow gone.

Someone else's slideshow.

Unwavering fingers slide to the windowsill, and with a soft _clink_ the withered gem finds its final resting place. It's a suitable tomb, she thinks. Here, with its power renounced, the ring joins with the desolate surroundings, soon to become yet another fallen, desolate memory. An empty tale no one will bear to know.

Free.

Those burning blue eyes lock on her when she turns and grasps Daryl's hand. She can feel his surprise, that familiar clench as everything freezes before he relaxes under her palm. Even shifts to rest a single thumb atop her own for a few minutes.

And as they sit together, sharing silence and comfort and small words of understanding, it occurs to her the fear she thought would take the shadow's place, the heartbreaking silence is nowhere to be found. That gaping hole inside of her, that vacant space has been replaced. Superseded by something far greater, far more comforting. Something _warm._

And here, at long last, there's no where else she would rather be. Than this abandoned, cold, isolated house. With this beautiful, broken man.

It was a beautiful day.

The day that started the rest of her life. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, lovely! Your words make a difference - feel free to leave an opinion below. Also, if you enjoyed this work, check out the beautiful graphic my dear friend [quodl](http://quodl.tumblr.com/) created for it [here](http://quodl.tumblr.com/post/82395618071/something-warm-written-by-the/). ^_^


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